As an incoming freshman I was full of fear and false confidence. Despite having just gotten back from Europe telling everybody I had ~*found myself*~ the reality was I had zero percent of my shit together and was just following the “fake it till you make it babe!” diet.
One of my best deceptions was somehow convincing an editor at Thread Magazine that I could write anything worthwhile about fashion/that I was qualified to keep a weekly blog about it without ending up on suicide watch. Miraculously, I did both, and, for maybe first time in my old age, I was truly proud of myself.
How the mighty fucking fall! A little while after my blogging days were over I went from feeling cocky and accomplished to an anxious mess.
Writing and documenting your life on the internet, like growing up, can be a nightmare. We’re such a nostalgic generation that we can ache for a time or place that we were a part of 24 hours ago. We #TBT to the last fucking Friday we were at the bar and we tweet begging someone to “OMG take me back to last summer PLEASE!!!” I am not immune to any of this.
My blog was like a timestamp of a person I loved being. It went from confidence booster to pressure cooker. It was a reminder that once upon a time I was living my life as somebody who was confident in every decision they made, somebody who I’d have wanted to get trashed and take over a party with.